Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [65]
Rhys stood in the barn, listening to the heavy breathing of the slumbering animals, the rustling of bats in the rafters, the hoot of an owl. He heard the night sounds and he heard, far louder, the sounds he would never hear again—the thwack of his emmide against the staff of a brother, the animated discussions in the warming room in winter, the quiet murmur of voices raised in prayer, the ringing of the bell that had divided up his day and marked out his life in long, neat furrows that had, only a few hours before, stretched into the future until Majere took his soul onto the next stage of its journey.
The furrows were jagged now and crisscrossed, one over the other in confusion, leading nowhere.
He had lost everything. He had nothing left except a duty. A duty to himself and his murdered parents and his brethren. A duty to the world that he had shunned for fifteen years and that had now come down on him with a vengeance.
“Vengeance,” he repeated softly, seeing again the ugliness inside him.
Find Lleu.
Rhys left the barn, and headed back to the monastery. His head pounded. He was dizzy and sick to his stomach, and he was having trouble focusing his eyes. He dared not lie down, as he longed to do. He had to remain awake. To keep himself awake, he would keep busy and there was work to do.
Grim work. Burying the dead.
“You need help, Brother,” said a voice at his shoulder.
Atta leapt straight up at the sound. Body twisting in mid-air, she landed on her feet, hackles raised, teeth bared in a snarl.
Rhys raised his emmide and whipped around to see who had spoken.
A woman stood behind him. In looks and in dress, she was extraordinary. Her hair was pale as sea foam and in constant motion, as was the green gown that rippled over her body and flowed down around her feet. She was beautiful, calm and serene as the monastery stream in midsummer, yet there was that in her gray-green eyes that told of raging floods and black ice.
She was all in darkness, yet he saw her clearly by her own inner radiance that seemed to say, “I have no need for the light of moon or stars. I am my own light, my own darkness, as I choose.”
He was in the presence of a goddess and he knew, from the strands of seashells she wore in her unkempt hair, which one.
“I need no help, I thank you, Mistress of the Sea,” Rhys said, thinking that it was strange that he should be conversing with a goddess as calmly he might have spoken to one of the village milkmaids.
Looking down at the broken pieces of his world in his hands, he thought suddenly that it was not so strange after all.
“I can bury my dead myself.”
“I’m not talking about that,” said Zeboim irritably. “I am talking about Chemosh.”
Rhys knew then why she had come. He just did not know how he was to answer.
“Chemosh holds your brother in thrall,” continued the goddess.
“One of the Death God’s High Priestesses, a woman named Mina, cast a powerful spell on your brother.”
“What kind of spell?” Rhys asked.
“I—” Zeboim paused, seeming to find it difficult to go on. The admission came out with a wrench. “I don’t know,” she said sullenly. “I can’t find out. Whatever Chemosh is doing, he is taking great care to conceal it from the other gods. You could find out, monk; you being mortal.”
“And how would I discover Chemosh’s secrets better than the gods?” Rhys demanded. He put his hand to his head. The pain was seeping out of the cupboard.
“Because you are a mite, a flea, a gnat. One among millions. You can blend in with the crowd. Go here. Go there. Ask questions. The god will never notice you.”
“It seems as though you need my help, Mistress,” said Rhys wearily. “Not the other way around. Atta, come.” He turned aside, resumed his walk.
The goddess was there in front of him. “If you must know, monk, I’ve lost her. I want you to help me find her.”
Rhys stared, perplexed. His head ached so that he could scarcely think. “Her? What her?”
“Mina, of course,” said Zeboim, exasperated. “The priestess who enthralled your wretch